"That's so," Jack replied, adding after a moment: "It may be waiting for me at the 'George.' They would naturally direct it there."
And on sending to inquire if there was anything for him at the hotel, there was brought to him an envelope directed to "Sir Jack Trevellian," received that morning, the bar-maid said. Breaking the seal, Jack read aloud:
"VICHY, July ——, 18—.
"To Sir Jack Trevellian, George Hotel, Bangor, Wales:
"It is impossible for me to come. Will write Bessie soon. Please see that everything is done decently, and send bill to me.
"JOHN McPHERSON."
Nothing could have been colder or more matter of fact, and Bessie's cheeks were scarlet as she listened, while Grey involuntarily gave a low whistle, and turning on his heel, walked away, and Jack tore the paper in shreds, which he threw into the empty grate. Then he looked at Bessie, whose face was now very white and quivering with pain and disappointment. Jack's first impulse was to denounce Mr. McPherson for his selfishness and neglect, but his kinder nature prevailed, and he said, apologetically:
"It is a long way from Vichy here, and the weather is very hot. But never mind. Grey and I will do all we can, and both Mr. McPherson and Lady Jane will surely come to you later."
"It is not that. I don't know what it is, only it is dreadful to be without one of your own kindred at such a time as this. Surely Neil might come or write," Bessie said, with such pathos in her voice that Jack looked sharply at her, thinking to himself:
"Is it possible she cares for him more than as a cousin? Doesn't she know Neil is the last one to inconvenience himself, if he can help it? Funerals are not to his taste."